Climbers can have their mountains,
steeps and peaks,
bloodied hands,
and groaning lungs.
They can keep
their icy paths,
where footprints fight for gaps
between empty bottles
of archived air.
I’ll take the camps below
where healing hands
cover wounds from
failed battles to ascend the mounts,
where shadows are long
beneath the heights
and clouds hide the
ends from their beginnings.
I’ll stay where the climbs
end
in turn-backs,
go-slows,
and emptied accounts;
or where they never
began.
I will linger
where singles and plurals
pray for help
and home,
where soft and silent beds
are good for dreaming,
of other days
like “maybe” and “hope to,”
“if only” or “try again.”
This is my height,
the base camp I scale:
My ceiling
and floor,
where wheelchairs
and crutches,
bandages and embraces
bring hope.
That’s my north star,
my vision-board peak,
where wounds are granted time
and truth, to heal.
The bottom;
not the top.